Very much interested lately in the hospitals; not only in
our own, “the Robertson hospital,” but in Mr. –––’s, the officers’ hospital.”
He has just told me of a case which has interested me
deeply. An officer from the far South was brought in mortally wounded. He had
lost both legs in a fight below Petersburg. The poor fellow suffered
excessively; could not be still a moment; and was evidently near his end. His
brother, who was with him, exhibited the bitterest grief, watching and waiting
on him with silent tenderness and flowing tears. Mr. ––– was glad to find that
he was not unprepared to die. He had been a professor of religion for some
years, and told him that he was suffering too much to think on that or any
other subject, but he constantly tried to look to God for mercy. Mr. ––– then
recognized him, for the first time, as a patient who had been in the hospital
last spring, and whose admirable character had then much impressed him. He was
a gallant and brave officer, yet so kind and gentle to those under his control
that his men were deeply attached to him, and the soldier who nursed him showed
his love by his anxious care of his beloved captain. After saying to him a few
words about Christ and his free salvation, offering up a fervent prayer in
which he seemed to join, and watching the sad scene for a short time, Mr. ––– left
him for the night. The surgeons apprehended that he would die before morning,
and so it turned out; at the chaplain's early call there was nothing in his
room but the chilling signal of the empty “hospital bunk.” He was buried that
day, and we trust will be found among the redeemed in the day of the Lord.
This, it was thought, would be the last of this good man; but in the dead of
night came hurriedly a single carriage to the gate of the hospital. A lone
woman, tall, straight, and dressed in deep mourning, got quickly out, and moved
rapidly up the steps into the large hall, where, meeting the guard, she asked
anxiously, “Where's Captain T.?” Taken by surprise, the man answered
hesitatingly, “Captain T. is dead, madam, and was buried to-day.” This terrible
announcement was as a thunderbolt at the very feet of the poor lady, who fell
to the floor as one dead. Starting up, oh, how she made that immense building
ring with her bitter lamentations! Worn down with apprehension and weary with
travelling over a thousand miles by day and night, without stopping for a
moment's rest, and wild with grief, she could hear no voice of sympathy — she
regarded not the presence of one or many; she told the story of her married
life, as if she were alone — how her husband was the best man that ever lived;
how everybody loved him; how kind he was to all; how devoted to herself; how he
loved his children, took care of, and did every thing for them; how, from her
earliest years almost, she had loved him as herself; how tender he was of her,
watching over her in sickness, never seeming to weary of it, never to be
unwilling to make any sacrifice for her comfort and happiness; how that, when
the telegraph brought the dreadful news that he was dangerously wounded, she
never waited an instant nor stopped a moment by the way, day nor night, and now
“I drove as fast as the horses could come from the depot to this place, and he
is dead and buried! — I never shall see his face again!” “What shall I
do?” — “But where is he buried?” They told her where. “I must go there; he must
be taken up; I must see him!” “But, madam, you can't see him; he has been
buried some hours.” “But I must see him; I can't live without seeing him; I
must hire some one to go and take him up; can't you get some one to take him
up? I'll pay him well ; just get some men to takt him up. I must take
him home; he must go home with me. The last thing I said to his children was,
that they must be good children, and I would bring their father home, and they
are waiting for him now! He must go; I can't go without him; I can't meet his
children without him!” and so, with her woman's heart, she could not be
turned aside — nothing could alter her purpose. The next day she had his body
taken up and embalmed. She watched by it until every thing was ready, and then
carried him back to his own house and his children, only to seek a grave for
the dead father close by those he loved, among kindred and friends in the fair
sunny land he died to defend. Many painfully interesting scenes occur, which I
would like so much to write in my diary, but time fails me at night, and my
hours of daylight are very closely occupied.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 311-4
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